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The question lands harder than it should.
Maybe because no one has asked me that in two hundred and thirty-five years.
Not really.
The Harvest wanted.
The Sower chose.
Ward Farm demanded.
For centuries, my entire existence has been shaped by obligations I never wanted and one terrible choice I could never undo.
Now there’s nothing.
No voice.
No ritual.
No command.
Only Sage.
Waiting.
“What do you want, Ezra?”
I swallow. “You.”
The word barely makes it out.
Her breathing changes.
I hear it.
Fuck, I feel it.
But the floor remains still beneath us.
Sage steps closer until her body nearly touches mine. “Then choose me.”
My hand rises, but I stop before touching her.
Her eyes flick toward it.
“Can I?”
Something in her expression breaks open.
“Yes.”
My palm settles against her cheek.
Still nothing.
No Harvest.
No Sower.
